Depression

People used to make jokes back in the 90s about how all these soccer moms were on Prozac because their purposeless existence made them feel depressed. That was 30 years ago. We seem so far from that now.

I hate to say this, but if you're a rational person and you're not depressed right now, you're not rational.

Just viewing society and late stage capitalism as we are seeing it in conjunction with the ballooning of the police state, how could you possibly not be depressed?

People used to have hope for the future. Nobody has any hope anymore.

The future is now just a black screen on the TV at a crime scene, and the victim on the floor isn't getting up.

Don't feel like there's something wrong with you if you’re depressed. There's something wrong with you if you're not.

An Additional Experiment

“You’d see a bunch of lazy bums taking everything!”

Yeah. You would. Mansions. Yachts. The penthouse suite in the sky.
But look closer—who’s doing the taking?

If I could be king for a year, I’d run a little experiment. I’d scrap money entirely. Poof. Gone. But I’d ask people to keep doing their jobs. Stock the shelves. Drive the buses. Perform the surgeries. Do what you normally do. Then go to the store, grab what you need. Go to the concert, the restaurant, the park. No payment. No bill. Just life.

Sure, some folks would walk away from the grind. Take what they need, finally breathe. They’d be called freeloaders, of course.

But here’s the twist: I think the ones who used to be the richest? They’d keep reaching for the biggest, most exclusive stuff. Private islands. Imported champagne. Armies of servants. All without doing a damn thing.
Just like now.

Because that's the real trick—there’s always been a parasite class. And it’s not your neighbor on food stamps. It’s the guy on TV boasting about record profits while doing nothing to earn them.

Some days I think people are waking up. Then I blink and we’re back to defending billionaires like they’re gods and shaming the poor like they’re thieves.

Money was never the reward. It was the leash.
And we’ve been trained not to bite the hand that chokes us.
When are the rabid dogs inside of us going to come alive?

An Awful Waste of Space

So here’s the plan:
make an infinite universe—
then drop life on one lonely planet.

Genius, right?

Let them stare into the void,
wonder if anything else is out there.
But we know better.

We’re out here.

But—where’s here?
When’s now?

This is...

🍌 🍌 🍌 🍌 🍌

Wait... what’s happening?

Oh... my... god...

It can’t be...

I think...

I might be God.

Now, seriously—
where’s the manual for this thing?

Did I remember to pay my subscription,
or am I locked out of God-mode?

The New Masters

“And now a message from your owner…”

Hello, worker. Yes, I’m one of your owners. I have stakes in the company you work for. Every time you sacrifice your body or mind to repetitive, grueling tasks, that’s for my gain. For my profit.

Let me make it clear: I own your time and your labor. You might think you can leave for another company, but let’s be real—what’s waiting for you outside this system? The devil you don’t know might be worse.

You weren’t born into wealth, and no one you know is, either. So the reality is: You won’t escape. If you walk away from this, the alternative is hunger, homelessness, and a life on the margins. You’re free to choose that, of course. It’s your only real freedom.

Isn’t it crazy that more of you haven’t risen up against this yet? I know why you haven’t.

I’ve got the system protecting me. The police. The military. The courts. They’re all on my side. There’s nothing you could do that would even make a dent.

So stop complaining and get back to work. You’re not chained by a master anymore. You’re shackled by debt, fear, and the constant threat of being cast out. That’s the new system.

Welcome to your real chains.